of energy, I trotted past him, waving gaily, only reverting to my leaden-footed slouch once I was safely round the next bend.It was half an hour before he staggered over the line, ashen-faced and wall-eyed. ‘Get us a pint in!’ he croaked.I bought the beer

. They’re gathered, focused and single-minded. They don’t have to share their energy and concentration with some disembodied, voyeuristic parasite. And it isn’t just runners. I bet it’s the same with people who are tops at chess, bricklaying, double

. Or brain surgeons digging holes in the road and filling them in again.Every day, the members of Six Pax expend enough energy to light a small town. And yet they achieve nothing beyond their own exhaustion, for which they will happily pay £500 per annum

is awful. It hurts, it’s exhausting, it’s hugely time-consuming (especially during licensing hours), and ultimately it’s pointless. At best it gets you from A to A in the most primitive, least energy-efficient way possible.But having run is splendid

. This represents a stupendous amount of food. It exceeds the gross annual consumption of the entire population of Mali. To comply, you must lug around your bodyweight in filthy, freeze-dried risotto and energy bars of the size and consistency of breeze blocks

… and having adjusted them in the light of the mysterious ‘could/couldn’t give a monkey’s’ factor, sets the internal metronome governing my rate of energy-deployment so that, whatever the race, I run it at a pace just short of the impossible.I’d like to think